


Glitter Among the Chickenfeed

by blackice



Series: Rooster Teeth/Funhaus - Rare pairs [4]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Funhaus Crew, GTA-verse, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Not a Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy AU, Parent mob-families starring Machinima and Rooster Teeth, There's more banter than actual sex, tailor!Jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackice/pseuds/blackice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man with curly dark hair, a hooked nose, and a determinedly cheerful grin pokes his head into the dilapidated store, an inordinately thick layer of pants draped over his forearms. “Hi,” says the man with a sliver of a grin, “you’re the new guy who does, uh, the high-quality tailoring?”</p><p>-</p><p>While Machinima struggles with Rooster Teeth for rights concerning its most profitable crew, Joel Rubin finds time for romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glitter Among the Chickenfeed

Truth be told, if Jon _hadn’t_ been evicted for his a) incessant demand of proper hygiene and b) stray tailoring supplies everywhere, he would have been for his c) notorious bisexuality among the consistently conservative residents of the apartment complex. And perhaps for the bloodstains he’d accidentally tracked in one night after a long run in the dark.

With all his worldly belongings in two suitcases and a duffel bag, Jon stands at a car dealership and attempts to make sense of car-jargon. He’s been surrounded and cornered by such chatter for a great deal of life, yet Jon still can’t tell the difference between a Toyota and a Lexus without the help of a large icon plastered at the hood or the trunk.

He forks out enough cash to rent something familiar and trashy, but still something he can’t quite name.

From San Andreas to Los Santos is about a two hour drive, give or take, when the freeways aren’t clogged up with both armored trucks (it’s a ridiculous amount, Jon’s counted five in the past hour) and daredeviling motorcyclists. He sees a race take place at the top of a mountain – Mount Chilead judging by that far-off peak – and pats himself on the back for not pursuing a medical degree.

Jon can only imagine what it’s like to be a doctor in Los Santos.

-

He expects a lot more high-rises, but of course, that’s all in the swanky area, where gentrification has already taken place years before and cleansed poverty from its streets. Jon works out a deal with a man over the phone, where he can live and work in this tiny two-room shop for however long he can pay the rent.

It’s not an especially _nice_ place in town, where he sets up shop as a tailor. Certainly not good enough to rake in enough money for what Jon anticipates as the protection tax _and_ his rent.

Jon palms the handle of his dismantled sidearm, stuffed between several layers of jeans of button shirts, and regretfully keeps it stowed away. Plenty of time to build a reputation on the streets, he reminds himself. _No need to blow cover the first week_.

-

A man with curly dark hair, a hooked nose, and a determinedly cheerful grin pokes his head into the dilapidated store, an inordinately thick layer of pants draped over his forearms. “Hi,” says the man with a sliver of a grin, “you’re the new guy who does, uh, the high-quality tailoring?”

Jon blinks. “Yes.” He discreetly tucks away his half-completed crossword and smiles at his fourth customer of the day. The other man looks faintly blindsided, and Jon victoriously attributes it to the fact he looks a lot more innocent than the tailor two streets down. “So?” he prompts.

The man enters the store with two others, also burdened with button-down collared shirts, trousers, and waistcoats. One is clean-shaven, with disorienting blue eyes and the physique of Captain America, and the other is bearded with a large forehead and a barrel chest.

It’s a lot of clothes, and Jon will later kiss his wallet for its future bulging insides, but right now there are two (clearly) bodyguards and one (possibly) mob boss. He dresses clean and sharp for a mob boss, to be honest.

The man introduces himself as Joel Rubin, the blond as James, and the barrel-chested fellow as Bruce. Jon restrains himself from pointing out James’s Captain America looks. “Alright guys,” says Joel, “that’s literally all I needed you for. Go race with Kovic or something. Shoo.” He makes a dismissive gesture with his hands, but evidently in good fun, because James and Bruce clap Joel on his sharp shoulders and grin on their way out.

Jon stays seated, but his hand does reach for his emergency gun under the counter. He keeps a pleasant smile on his face. “I’m surprised you decided to take your clothes here,” he eventually says after a minute of Joel fussing over the weight of his many, many clothes. “I’ve only recently opened.”

Joel dumps his closet onto Jon’s counter and beams. “Yeah. But on this block, you either stay for a month or you stay for years. And the other tailor sucks.”

He takes stock of the shirts and pants, and then of their thin-shouldered owner, and stops reaching for the gun.

“This is going to cost a lot,” he points out, and Joel shrugs.

Even though Jon happens to be a professional, the entire fitting process takes more than two hours. Joel’s shimmied in and out of clothes more times than Jon could count on his fingers and toes, and Jon’s measurements have filled two pages, front and back.

It’s a quiet process, which Jon appreciates. The atmosphere doesn’t turn awkward at any point, and Joel is content enough not to feel the need to speak about inane things, like the volleyball tournaments at the beach or the recent string of robberies the Fake AH Crew are committing to feed fuel to the media’s frenzy and the LSPD’s anger.

From where he’s retreated behind the register, Jon assures Joel he’ll be done within two weeks, and a dubious look finally crosses Joel’s eyes.

“Two weeks?” echoes the man. “Sounds… rushed.”

This time, Jon shrugs. “I’m still new in town, so I don’t have too many customers.” He tacks on a silent prayer. _I hope I never have too many customers_. “Two weeks,” he repeats. On impulse, he reaches over to clasp Joel loosely at the bicep. “It’ll be ready for whatever soiree you need to attend.” Letting go before the man has time to react, Jon waits. It’s dismissive if he turns away to go work, so it’s better to let the customer leave first. Or so Jon’s time socializing has taught him.

-

His entrance into the underbelly of Los Santos must apparently be preceded by making a good name for himself with the mob bosses in tailoring. To be fair, Jon’s reputation from San Andreas had been righteously choked to death, mainly because his reputation laid in how snappy his dressing skills were in comparison to how quickly he finished jobs.

Burnie Burns walks into his store not two days after a giddy Joel’s walked away with his tailored clothes (if Jon had been wistfully staring at his retreating back, well, it’s no one’s business), a blonde at his right, a sulky bearded man at his left.

A heavy suitcase is heaved up and onto his poor counter, which shudders under the impact and weight. Jon conceals his wince as best he can, and subtly moves in a good position to duck and grab his gun. “What can I do for you three?” he asks, sincere and as trustworthy as possible.

“A friend of ours was just exploding with happiness over finding the one decent tailor this side of Los Santos,” Burns informs Jon. “I’m assuming that’s you. Because he also described your shop having the ‘front of a sweatshop’.”

He looks disapproving of Jon’s life choices, and Jon is forced to silently conclude he’s made some pretty shitty life choices under the force of that stare. Instead of continuing to meet the stare head-on, he turns his attention to the suitcase and wordlessly opens it.

_Less sharply-dressed than Joel._

“Is this for you or your friends?” he asks absentmindedly, flipping through the clothes. He spies a sleek bundle of fabric definitely intended for a girl, but he also sees the broad-shouldered lines of a man’s collared shirt in the suitcase.

“All of us,” Burnie corrects.

After the entire fitting is done and the trio is about to leave, Jon finally gets to try and ask, “Your friend, Joel, did he actually endorse the shop?” He sees his future as a prospering hitman drop to a two-bit assassin with a sharp sense of dress.

The blonde, Barbara, assures him, “No, but he looked way too fine to pass up the opportunity not to ask where his old shitty clothes were.” Her smile looks wide and generous, even with the intimidating painted lips framing the white teeth. “Joel was almost a little possessive of the name, you know.”

Sorola, as the sulky bearded man’s introduced himself, snorts. “Said that my ‘disproportionate arms would scare the man off’.” He aims a steady dark glare at Jon, and to Jon’s credit, Jon doesn’t even curl his toes or his hands into fists. “Any thoughts?”

Jon bites back the wit and simply smiles a seller’s smile – politely curious and standoffishly friendly.

-

The first thing one must do to make a name for one’s self in Los Santos: _get stupid_. Jon, fastidiously sensible as he is, looks himself in the mirror and makes a solemn vow to return with the inklings of a reputation. Sky’s a muted black, stars blotted out by the pollution. It’s a good time to start attracting attention.

To keep his identity safe, though, because no one stays in Los Santos without rubbing a few shoulders the wrong way, Jon takes a note off the Mad Mercenary. Instead of a horrifying black skull, though, Jon only invests in post-Halloween face-paint and hair ties. He still dresses smartly, though, as if he’s just another white-collar worker out to return back home instead of one of Los Santos’s hoodlums.

There’s no easier way to say it: he walks the streets. Los Santos is hardly a maze, not in the daytime or the nighttime; it’s just a bunch of back-alleys interspersed with shady bars and underground stripclubs. Jon gets cat-called only when his back is turned and his painted face is hidden.

He’s a little offended.

After several hours of foolishly trying to grab attention as a wealthy man, Jon resignedly returns to his shop through a backdoor. Jon, consoling himself with the fact first nights rarely result in a jackpot of job opportunities while wiping the paint off his face, hears the front door open when he’s clearly put up the ‘Closed’ sign.

He draws his gun and carefully edges towards the front of his shop (the back being reserved for his sparse living arrangements), finger off the trigger. Rails attached to the ceiling have hangars supporting long translucent plastic bags almost hitting the linoleum, and this provides him a cover.

“Hello-o-o-o?” drawls an unfamiliar voice, then breaking into a fit of intolerable sniggering. The figure is broad, thick and heavyset in a way reminding Jon of a construction worker. An equally unidentifiable, if smaller and thinner, is jittery and moving beside his or her partner.

Finger goes on the trigger.

“Ah-h-h, newbies always think they can just close up a shop and not expect anyone to rob it, you know, Dixie?”

“I – I don’t think this is the greatest place to rob, J-John,” stammers the other man. “Didn’t you hear the Funhaus boys claim it as theirs? At the r – race yesterday?” A moment of silence passes, except for where John is rustling items behind the counter to presumably find the safebox.

John finally snaps. “Does it look like I give a damn what Kovic says? Does it look like I care at _all_ about Rubin’s favorites? Jesus fucking Christ, if they cared so badly, they’d’ve posted a guard at the block!” He lets out a triumphant shout – he’s found the safebox. “Go on, nerd, break the lock.”

Jon measures his chances and steps from his cover silently.

He shoots John in the kneecaps before Bruce barrels down the door with a battle-cry. Dixie screeches in terror and is paralyzed before the both of them, hands in the air.

-

He and Bruce call the LSPD, because Jon likes to behave normal sometimes, and when the two of them are scrubbing down their weapons with terrycloth and nudging the moaning bodies into the center of the room, Bruce lightly asks, “So, not just a tailor?”

Jon grimaces. “Moved here from San Andreas to find better jobs,” he grumbles. “I didn’t actually expect your boss to actually appreciate my more mundane skills.”

“Yeah,” snorts Bruce. “Joel was way too excited when he got his clothes back. Screaming and everything, I swear.” He pulls out his vibrating phone and makes a face at it. “Hey, can you stash this for me?” Gingerly holding the other gun in the terrycloth, Jon sighs and stores it with his below the false bottom of his safe-box.

Only half-listening, Jon catches Bruce groaning, “Oh my _god_ , if you wanna know what color Jon’s underwear is, _Joel_ ,” Bruce waves at his subject with a big grin plastered on his face, “you should ask him yourself.”

“I only put out third date,” says Jon primly.

“Didja hear that, Joel? He puts out _third date_!”

-

Bruce picks up his gun the same time Joel wants his new ill-fitting suit tailored.

Jon gets to ponder exactly how Joel winds up with so many crappy clothes for all of a minute when Joel lays down a deal:

“I hear you’re in the thug life.” The statement slips casually into conversation, a friendly joke between a tailor and his customer, but when Jon meets Joel’s steady dark eyes (they glint a little, almost like obsidian), it’s a clear invitation. For something.

He’s never been too great with the subtleties, and this is why he prefers the life of a mercenary, where everything is laid out in contracts and _maybe_ insidious wording. Not for Jon is the life of a mobster boss.

“I’m looking to get back into it,” Jon shamelessly admits. He rolls a pin between his fingers. Back to business. “How fitted do you want this shirt?”

“I’ll need to be able to move my arms and bend down,” Joel reminds him, then purses his lips. “Well. Tight enough that my physique is… ” He winks at Jon. “ _Fitting_.”

The open flirtation warms Jon’s face, and an unbidden grin tugs at his mouth. “Shut up,” he tells the mob boss fondly.

-

Not two days ago, Joel walked away from the shop with a happy whistling tune accompanying his step. Now he’s inside with two unknowns, and Jon can only assume Joel’s spending unwarranted amounts of money on his subordinates’ clothes.

The unknown wearing a red baseball cap clings tight to a backpack, eyes determinedly fixated on the uninteresting linoleum flooring. The other one – Jon wants to call him a cross between a lumberjack and a certain holy figure – looks resigned to being in here. Or alive. It’s a toss-up.

“Jon, hey, you free for two more scrubs?” asks Joel, enthused.

None of them are carrying any clothes to be tailored.

The capped man says, “Bruce said we shouldn’t enable your bad flirting.” Lumberjack Christ communicates a clear expression of disapproval, though at what Jon can’t discern.

Out of a reflexive need to protect the underdog, Jon argues, “He’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, listen to Jon, I’m not – ” Joel visibly runs through Jon’s words again and clears his throat. “You’re gullible, Spoole,” he shoots back. “Go set up the security systems with Peake.”

Spoole and Peake move like shadows to the back of the store, disappearing behind the display racks (the customers’ clothes he keeps toward the back) and leaving Jon and Joel alone.

Joel is pinching the bridge of his nose and keeping his eyes closed. “God,” he says. “Sorry, for me being a bad flirt, I usually bring a better game.” As he continues apologizing, Jon silently gets up from his chair, casts an uncaring eye at the curtain-less, unsaturated windows, and directly centers himself in front of a still repenting Joel.

“Joel,” placates Jon, a hand going to tug Joel’s raised wrist from his face. “It’s fine.”

“Aargh,” responds Joel, but his eyes open, dark and intrigued. “This is the first time I’ve flirted using a bad pun,” he mournfully admits. “The _first damn time_.”

“Well, you can’t bring your A-game to the table every time.”

“Unacceptable standards coming from _you_.”

“Tell me when you do bring your A-game; I’ll feel rightfully courted then.”

It doesn’t feel right to have a movie-star kiss, not in a dilapidated tailor shop with two bodyguards lurking in the back setting up a ‘security system’, not when the two of them are holding a good round of banter. So they don’t.

Jon’s reluctant to see them go about their business.

-

Jon’s first job comes unexpectedly from Burnie over the phone.

“ _So you want a job?_ ” asks Burnie, voice tinny over the speaker.

His first instinct is to demand who said what, but here could be the only chance for making his name (Joel seems determined to not really bring up job opportunities, and Jon’s content to let the matter lie when he considers the number of bodyguards or other employees in Joel’s pocket).

“Yeah.”

“ _Good, good. Anything you’re unwilling to do?_ ”

“I don’t kill kids, animals, or really good friends.”

“ _Payment?_ ”

“Cash, three-fourths paid up front.”

“ _Fifty percent paid before, fifty after_.”

The job’s too easy; he’s assigned to join a heist, which is nice, except they’re heisting an armored truck, which is not so nice.

Jon still passes with flying colors, having survived with only several injuries (no one can _drive_ in Los Santos, and it drives him crazy not to be at the wheel) and a cut of the profit. When he enters his shop in the late night, weary, exhausted, and bewildered at his luck, there is no one to greet him ‘home’. Not that he expected anybody.

He pulls out the wad of bills making up his cut and stares at the crisp green of the twenty-dollar bills in his hand. A slow smile. Honest living, this, earned through actual blood and sweat. _And_ , Jon reflects giddily, _I’ve completely lost the snazzy assassin title_.

-

 “Into the sunset, huh?” asks Joel from behind him. Jon keeps sitting at the edge of the dock, the speedboat under his feet bobbing gently in the ocean. Unsurprisingly, the Funhaus boss does not sit down beside him – Jon doesn’t begrudge him, those are some high-quality trousers.

It’s been approximately a week since the first heist job, a week and a half since Jon wanted to kiss Joel under the tacky lighting of his shop. He’s purposely paid little attention to his crush thereafter, which in retrospect is a _mistake_.

“Always looked nice in the movies,” responds Jon. He cranes his neck up and to the side to catch Joel’s eyes. The man’s tired, and it shows despite the quicksilver grins and indignant tones he uses. “You alright?”

Joel dismisses the concern with a blitheness impressing Jon in another life, and he redirects the line of questioning back at the mercenary-tailor. “How’d your first job go?”

“Well enough. I got enough cash to pay for a single meal at that fancy restaurant you talked about all the time.”

“Goals.”

“But hey, if _you_ pay, it’ll be past our third date,” Jon hints, nudging at the man’s leg with an elbow. He grins at the loud throat-clearing noise Joel involuntarily coughs. “I mean, it’s about time I learned more stuff about you, right?”

The mob boss shoves his hands in his pockets. “More stuff? You don’t even know my favorite color,” he sniffs.

“Blue.” It’s a very educated guess made to sound like a confident fact.

Joel scowls. “You’re too observant.”

“I know,” the tailor mourns. “It got me kicked out of San Andreas. Now be sappy and invite me to a good dinner, preferably not French.” Obligingly, Joel extends a hand down to help Jon back to his feet; Jon takes it, feeling only mildly surprised at the strength behind the thin arms.

“Be classy for once, Jon.”

-

He can tell Joel is anxious about the end of their last-minute dinner date (they are sitting in the Los Santos equivalent of a Gordon Ramsay restaurant; Jon evidently has no qualms about taking advantages of the privileged), because the man continuously pulls out his phone from his pocket only to put it back after a guilty look. “Plans?” asks Jon. Preventing other people from doing their job is not his aim.

“I left Kovic in charge,” mutters Joel, fingers dancing on the silverware. “I _hate_ leaving Kovic in charge of management.”

Jon, having only met James, Bruce, Spoole, and Peake, still could not picture what manifestation of chaos this Kovic happened to be. “I hate to sound like I’m snooping, but what’s your crew really like?” Honest curiosity—Joel runs a tight ship, but what Jon’s seen of the team, they are all quite… personable.

The question certainly startles Joel from his worries. “Well, uh. They aren’t really my crew, so to speak. I’m just de-facto leader since I’ve got good organizational skills.”

“So when you’re gone, Kovic steps in?”

“God, not usually.” Joel’s laugh is tempered down into an almost silent snort; Jon mentally plans to take Joel on a date in like, a bar or something. He’d rather see Joel laugh with his head thrown-back, neck exposed like he has not a care in the world. “Well, I _guess_ I could tell you our hierarchy, but then I’d have to, uh, ensure your silence.” A cheesy wink pairs with a long sip of red wine.

Dryly, Jon asks, “Is that a kink of yours?”

Joel chokes and gingerly sets down his glass. “Okay, you win.” At Jon’s raised eyebrow, Joel hastily amends, “ _No_ , not about that, I just – I’m not – um.” He rubs his neck and then appears to regain a new wave of enthusiasm. “Let me start over. I’m in a crew of seven, including me. I’ll go by last names for the ones you haven’t met yet: Sonntag, Kovic, James, Bruce, Peake, and Spoole. At least five of them are addicted to adrenaline, and the last has an amazing work ethic…”

It’s clear Joel thinks of his crew as more than work-buddies. Closer than colleagues, farther from lovers. (Jon has never joined an orgy in his life, but he’d’ve considered the matter if it happened.) While Joel waxes poetry about the ‘immature idiots’, Jon narrows down the relationship.

 _Family_.

Not like brothers, more like close cousins.

“Please don’t tell me you’re now charmed by my crew’s sense of humor,” says Joel suddenly.

“I think I could get used to it. From a faraway distance.”

 Jon discreetly winds his ankle with Joel’s under the table, offering a sweet smile when Joel tilts his head. “So, you’re paying for the check and driving me home like a good date, right?” He pulls out his wallet anyway. “Or at least, well, splitting the check. Might take up the rest of my profit from Burnie’s job.”

“Fair price for such great reward, Jon.”

-

Joel gets in the car, Jon hops in shotgun. “Speaking of my home, I’ve only got a twin-size mattress.”

“You are so lucky I’m a generous man,” retorts Joel, revving the engine. Jon buckles in and stretches against the leather, full from the food and warm from the drink.

“Mm, drive us home, sugardaddy.”

Joel absentmindedly swats at his head. “Not a good kink.” Jon makes a note of it.

-

“You’re supposed to be a mercenary,” grouches Joel, hauling Jon out from his comfortably snug place inside the car. Ah, seat-warmers. Bless your manufacturer’s soul. “Where’s your unslakable thirst for sex?”

Jon finds his footing and a convenient door (presumably leading inside Joel’s very suburban two-story home), and he relentlessly backs Joel into it. “I am a _professional_ ,” insists Jon, “and I insist on _things_ happening before sex.”

Joel looks up at the ceiling of his garage with something like exasperation. “Like?”

The mob boss feels a hand sneaking to the back of his neck and pressing him to look at Jon’s wry eyes. “I mean,” drawls Jon, “we haven’t even kissed. Which I’m correcting.” He stalls for a second, pausing just a moment to impress this sight (wide dark eyes, soft and slightly unfocused, lips partly opened, hitched breathing) before leaning in.

Enthusiastically, Joel returns the kiss, with additional grabby hands. Grabby hands that gravitate towards Jon’s ass.

He yelps. “Okay, uh, door? Door key? Can we take this to a sane place for sex and not – ?”

“Yeah, yeah,” dismisses Joel, pulling away one hand to dig in his pocket for his housekey and turning away to unlock the door. “Adventure is for the youthful, I get it, you want it to be safe, sane, etcetera.” The door opens a crack, and Joel lets out a triumphant shout, the tone of which swiftly turns into shock when Jon starts herding him forcefully onward.

“Bed,” demands Jon. “Then we can be as adventurous as you want. Couch, floor, kitchen counter, shower—”

They hit a hallway when Jon’s mouth says _shower_ , and Joel simply refuses to take any more teasing. This time it’s his turn to slam his soon-to-be lover against a wall, lips immediately going to Jon’s, hands already working at a belt. “I swear to everything on high,” says Joel, “please, not in the shower. I think my crew does like, daily morning showers in there.”

“I knew it!” responds Jon, mischief in his tone. “This _is_ a frathouse!”  He’s unbuttoning Joel’s shirt, clever fingers not even the slightest bit unsteady despite the red wine. “Tell me you’ve got your own room.”

“At this rate, I don’t know if we’ll even make it there. There being the last door in the hall,” mutters the mob boss, jerking fruitlessly at the button on Jon’s trousers. “For fuck’s sakes – ” He recoils when Jon bends down at the knees and then bodily lifts him up in a fireman’s carry. “ _What the fuck_!”

“I’m sorry, didn’t you want to actually have sex in bed?” Jon mocks, staggering for the bedroom door.

Jon opens the bedroom door, steps in with his incredibly warm cargo, and kicks it shut with one foot. Marching for the bed, he’s way too eager to dump Joel in an ungainly heap atop the duvet. The mob boss untangles himself rapidly. “Ugh,” complains the tailor. “I think I’m too tired for sex now.”

Hands grab at his shirt and pull him down so he’s straddling a pink and breathless Joel. “I will feed you pancakes tomorrow,” Joel promises, and Jon thinks over the matter.

“I’m holding you to that.” He dives in for a kiss and moves to divest Joel of all his articles of clothes.

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! This will actually be two-parts for the sake of containing an actual plot. When's this next part going to be? Probably in a lo-o-o-o-ong time, because I made this decision last night. So this was the fluff, next is the grit. Theoretically. Haven't even written yet, to be honest. 
> 
> Comment, review, criticize! I'm known as the fluff-writer in my family, so it'd be nice to get feedback on how fluffy I've gotten in Los Santos. (Also, expect the next series installment to be an awkward foray into A/B/O for Axial6401? I'm sorry for these sins.)


End file.
